A morning without rain.
A day I don't have to see
somebody sacked.
An evening without news.
A picket line.
The presence of people I love.
An absence of things.
Categorized as Licks

At the Railway Station, Upwey.

At the Railway Station, Upwey

You would not recognise it now,
surrounded as it is with neat
homes, a net curtained wilderness
winding to the Ridgeway.

Yet as the wind wanes
and Sunday men look up from
washed cars, the air reveals
notes played in a high register:

unmistakably, a violin.

17 Licks

17 Licks 

Small fish swim down stream
from deep pools where they were hatched
spawned a million times

This small dish of rain
shines like a plate of bright sun
caught in flagrante

Coal fires flame inside
the belly of an engine
rising to full steam

Rails glint in moonlight
frost covers up the edges
of a cold platform

Where the blackbird sings
slow dawn slithers up to see
who has breakfast first

Foxes scream at night
fearing us and attracting
friends for company

When you sleep my love
dark night coils around your form
keeping safe your heart

In a tree house topped
by green leaved branches bending
in the wind you sit

Full of praise for fun
the small comedian laughed as
he died of stage fright

Pigeons sit above
the heads of travellers splat
by white spots of shit

Where contention reigns
sanity is not intact
conflict batters peace

Shoes that do not fit
pinch the toes the insteps swell
the feet start aching

Drinking in a pub
though costly and frowned upon
socialises you

A morning of rain
before the grass can be cut
an afternoon's rest

That black dress you wore
we were drinking in that bar
your legs smooth and brown

The sun on hot sand
burned onto your feet as you
ran into the sea

The garden you dig
deeper than the depth of soil
grows from inside you
Categorized as Licks

When his hair was long

When his hair was long

When his hair was long
and his waist was slim,
when the booze had not yet
crackled his skin;

when his eyes were clear,
ideals still intact
and trite cynicism
was not yet a fact,

she loved him.

Keeping it Right

Keeping it Right

We've been on strike a few times now.
We're not concerned about the reason
but for the smell of the picket line.
And when it's over, armbands stowed,
work is brighter for a time,
scabs slinking in
as we look bosses in the eye.
No one can quite hold our stare.



I was ready to go out,
About to leave the flat,
Had done the washing up,
Had found my hat.

I had put my lenses in
And brushed my teeth (I'm sure),
Put on my coat and opened
The front door.

I stepped out for the Tube
With all day trippers gone,
When I noticed that I had
My slippers on.